


Bookends

by frostings



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-30
Updated: 2014-12-30
Packaged: 2018-03-04 09:10:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3062171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frostings/pseuds/frostings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A glimpse of a friendship in the Tower before everything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bookends

**Author's Note:**

> The fic was inspired by the Simon and Garfunkel song “Bookends”, hence the name.

_Time it was and what a time it was it was,_  
 _A time of innocence a time of confidences._  
  
 _Long ago it must be, I have a photograph_  
 _Preserve your memories, they’re all that’s left yo_ u

  
It’s a friendship of convenience at first. They’re both running late for their Practical Skills class (because Andraste forbid anyone learn how to shoot an arcane bolt and not know how to crack an egg), tripping over their robes and muttering curses under their breath and when they finally get there everyone’s paired up with someone else.   
  
“What’s today’s class, then?” the boy with the shaggy black hair asks as they clamber up as their stools. They’ve gotten the worst oven in the classroom, one that sputters and make anything baked in it taste like coal. 

  
  
“Bread.” She replies out of the corner of her mouth. Already her mouth is set in a thin line. She looks slightly annoyed and the boy only knows her as The Studious One. She’s never been interested in making friends ever since she got in the Tower, it seems. She mostly reads, and never notices anyone nor anything else.   
  
“Hmmm.” The boy regards the pre-measured flour in front of him like it were lyrium dust, ready to explode. “I didn’t study for this.”   
  
“It’s absolutely ridiculous.” The Studious One is glaring angrily at the eggs, like they just did her some grievous harm. “We should be learning stances and staff work—not—this.”   
  
“I’m very glad to hear your opinion, now you’ve deigned to join us.” Instructor Darius chimes in, looking less than pleased at The Studious One’s outburst. “Just think of this as basic—very basic—potion-making. Anyway, it’s not like anyone can cast a decent spell on an empty stomach. Well then!” the Instructor addresses the rest of the class. “Bread is a staple in our meals, but no one really appreciates how complex it is to make…”   
  
Five hours later, the boy has to agree that baking is hard. Baking bread is REALLY hard. Delicious warm bread-scent is filling the room, but in their corner, their oven emits dark smoke ominously.   
  
“Any chance that we can just say we transmuted the dough into true rock?” his companion is staring at their oven very morosely. The boy takes out something black and horrid out of the oven and drops it on their table. It lands with a dull thud. Their bread is uniformly round and uniformly black. Just as luck would have it, Instructor Darius chooses the exact time to examine their work.   
  
“Oh, wonderful, you found a dragon egg.” The elder mage waves a hand in front of his face, looking disgruntled. “…unless you’re trying to tell me this thing is actually edible, I’d rather pretend it was a dragon egg instead. Children, I know that you’ve gotten the worst oven out of the lot, but this is a waste of ingredients.”   
  
“Well, in case you need a doorstopper, you know where to go.” The girl says wryly, and the boy laughs despite himself. Instructor Darius is not pleased at all, and makes them clean up after class. The Studious One is not pleased with this.   
  
“This is your fault…” she begins as they begin to collect the scattered dishes.   
  
“Jowan.” He provides helpfully.   
  
“I told you we should’ve let the dough rise some more…whatever that means.”   
  
“Now, wait a moment here….”  
  
“Amell.”   
  
“Yes, well, Amell. I don’t know if you’ve noticed but I am EXCELLENT in making stews, and I made the best custard last week.” Who does she think she is, anyway? Jowan isn’t going to let her blame him for everything.   
  
“Best custard, you say? What an accomplishment! They should let you take the Harrowing tomorrow.” Amell mutters, dropping utensils in a basin with a clatter. The wash-basin is a little too high for her, so Jowan helpfully provides their ruined bread as a something for her to stand on. It works perfectly. She flashes him a small grin.   
  
“So…partners again next week, then? We’re taking up courtly manners.”   
  
“As long as I get to be the visiting mage and you’re Arlessa Stick-in-the-Mud.” Jowan agrees. Amell flicks some dishwater in his direction, and just like that they are friends.   
  
_________________  
  
Amell knows that Jowan befriended at her first because she’s The Studious One, and she helps him. No chant is too complicated, no staff work too complex, no combat tactic too confusing whenever she’s around to grill it into his fuzzy head night after night. She finds that her peers don’t like Jowan much because he has a tendency to be…clingy. But then again, they don’t like her either because she’s exactly the opposite. _Nose buried in books, thinks she’s better than us_ … she has heard them whisper, and she cries bitter tears to sleep night after night, until she meets Jowan.   
  
Jowan becomes her real friend in the Tower. She loosens up with him, and she feels…grateful. Amell very quickly learns that saying no to Jowan is like kicking a kitten. Too easy to do, and hurts her as much as it hurts him.   
  
Amell also likes that Jowan doesn’t laugh at her for the one thing she’s ashamed of—reading fairytales. He catches her reading in the Common Room, when she wasn’t fast enough to hide it from him. He just gives her a perplexed look. “Why?” He understands the need to have a little escape from their daily life in the Tower, but fairytales typically feature knights—and sometimes, templars.   
  
He actually goes into a thoughtful discussion of it with her. “If you think about it, we’re the monsters they’re fighting in the story. Evil witches and all that.” Jowan surmises, but Amell simply shrugs. She’s long accepted that being a mage means being a walking time bomb, but she likes fairytales anyway. It’s comforting to know that somewhere out there is a Happy Ever After. She reclines on her seat, staring directly at the templar standing by the bookcase. The templar seems to look back coolly.   
  
_________________  
  
“Are you sure about this?” Jowan is nervous, and it gives him a little comfort that she seems to be nervous as well.   
  
Amell nods, closes her eyes, and sucks in a deep breath.   
  
“Stupid girl, do you think you’re going diving?” They’re standing in a broom closet and Jowan can’t remember why he even agreed to do this in the first place. The room smells like must and forgotten items. He fidgets a bit and ends up overturning an empty bucket.   
  
“Hey, if you don’t want to…”there’s a warning note in her voice.   
  
“Alright, fine.” He clears his throat. “Pucker up then.”   
  
Somehow in the total darkness, he locates where Amell’s face is, and then, her lips. He waits for that glorious feeling that other mages describe experiencing…but all he gets is a mush of wetness, and a slight clicking of teeth. And the slight smell of basil on Amell’s breath. Just that.   
  
Amell stops suddenly and draws away. “I don’t feel anything.” She says.  
  
“That’s it. I guess we’re Tranquils.” Jowan jokes, a bit uneasily.   
  
Then, with a touch of irritation, she asks “What’s the big deal with all this, then?” Amell doesn’t like it if something she tries doesn’t work the first time. Jowan shrugs in the darkness, even though she can’t see. It’s not like he’s ever wanted to kiss Amell, just that…he didn’t know anyone else he may have wanted to, or more importantly, would let him.  
  
They assure each other that they’re not terrible kissers, and pinky-promise never speak of the incident again.   
  
_________________  
  
“Pretend we’re somewhere else.”   
  
“Aren’t we already pretending?” Jowan asks sleepily. They are both lying in front of one of the wider windows of the Tower, full sunlight streaming in from the cloudless sky. But they are also on a beach in Amaranthine, although neither of them can imagine what the beach looks like, what sand feels in copious amounts, what the sea tastes like.   
  
“Fine.” Amell squints in the afternoon sun. “Let’s go fishing. Don’t you remember how delightful those fish they served us here, once? Those little herring-things? Let’s catch some of those.”  
  
“We’ll be using those fishing rod things, right?” Jowan murmurs, already half-asleep.   
  
“Yes, and if I recall correctly, you attach a string on one end and just cast it over the water.” She mimics the motion in her hands. “Then you wait it out until it bites…”   
  
Jowan opens his eyes and looks at her with his face plainly saying  _Even your make-believe is boring_  and looks like he’s about to say it when another voice interrupts:   
  
“Actually you need to use bait if you ever want one of those biting.” It’s that new redhead templar, and she didn’t notice him standing watch until he spoke up. “They like little broken-up bits of fish, you know. Or chicken and squid and octopus…” the templar falters under the deadpan stare of the two mages lying down on the floor. “…or maggots.” He finishes lamely.   
  
“Maggots?” Amell makes a face, but Jowan’s interest is piqued.   
  
“You stab those little squirmy things into the hook then?  **And then you feed them to the fish as bait**? Brilliant!” the templar nods. Jowan grins. “I didn’t know templars were fishermen too…”   
  
“Jowan!” Amell scolds sharply.   
  
“I grew up in a fishing village before I got sent to the Chantry.” The templar replies by way of explanation. He shifts his eyes to Amell. “Y-you’re Amell, right? You won that mage dueling contest last week.” She stares at him but he continues: “You were wearing that cowl with the teeth and—and you froze the floor so your opponent slipped on it…and…” he trails off and blushes under her unblinking stare. “Y-you were pretty great.” The last word almost comes out as a whisper.   
  
Amell finally blinks, looks somewhere else. “Thanks, I guess.”   
  
“That’s our Amell, floor-freezer extraordinaire!” Jowan laughs, punching her good-naturedly on one arm. “She’s got a big stick and she’s not afraid to use it! If you’re not careful, she’ll thunk you over the head when her mana’s out, won’t you Amell.”   
  
“Shut up, Jowan.” But she’s already laughing, standing up and giving Jowan a playful kick. She tucks a hair behind her ear. “Anyway, we’ve got to go. See you, Cullen.” The templar gives a start when she says his name and she’s realized her mistake and she’s pulled Jowan out of the room just before Cullen asks:   
  
“Wait—you know my name…?”  
  
_________________  
  
It’s late in the evening and both of them are vainly struggling to keep awake to finish their schoolwork. This particular exam is important because it decides whether you get to train directly under a Senior Enchanter or just be another faceless apprentice drudge. Amell’s head is already lolling on Jowan’s shoulder and he gives her a small nudge. She sighs, eyes flutter slightly open, closes again.   
  
“Amell.” Jowan begins. They’re surrounded by a mess of tomes, vellum, spilt ink and quills. It’s a familiar and comforting sight. “Amell.”   
  
“Yes, Jowan.”  
  
 _Tell her tell her tell her tell he_ r chants within him but Jowan silences it. “Do you ever want to fall in love?”   
  
“If you’re in love with me Jowan, just spit it out. I’ll reject you gently.” Maker, even half-asleep she can whip out some sarcasm.   
  
She finally sits up, rubs her eyes, and considers the question a moment. “I used to think I wanted to…but now that I think of it, no.”   
  
“No?”   
  
“It just seems too much trouble, is all.”   
  
“Oh.” Jowan hesitates, takes a furtive look around. He lowers his voice. “But you like… _him_.”  
  
Amell simply shrugs, looking a little sad but also like it didn’t matter. “All the more reason not to, right?” she looks at him closely. “Why do you ask?”   
  
“Nothing.” Jowan lights another candle with a gentle toss of his hand. She doesn’t pursue the matter, simply smiles at him. Then another voice suddenly says  _Remember this_  and he doesn’t know why but he follows the voice’s instruction. He sits back and drinks in the details: Amell tying up her hair in a loose bun, the small sounds of the Tower (mice, the creaking of templar armor, other students nearby murmuring schoolwork, books being shut), the smell of lyrium dust, the sensation of his legs falling asleep. He’ll need this memory, for something in the far future. Perhaps when he is old and a senior enchanter and Amell’s hair is as white as Wynne’s, he will remind Amell of this moment and they will laugh about how serious they were as students. Perhaps, that.  
  
He tries not to think of the Chant of Light. Instead he pulls a spellbook towards him and says aloud, “Alright. So what are the three spells you need to have mastered before you can cast crushing prison?”   
  
 _Fin._


End file.
